


Setting Sun, Rising Moon

by bruvebanner



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Asgard, M/M, Odinson Family Kinda Okay, Political Intrigue, Poor Bruce, Ross sucks, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 06:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruvebanner/pseuds/bruvebanner
Summary: The facts of the matter were made very clear to Thor; he was to wed Midgard’s strongest warrior in order to obtain peace between the Realm’s.It was both an olive branch...and the arrow with which the Realm’s held one another at bay.It was a statement.“Know our strength intimately, and if there should come a time of war, know he and we will have no qualms striking like a snake in the grass.”





	Setting Sun, Rising Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written a fic in ages, so be gentle with me. I hope you all genuinely enjoy this little endeavor into the world of an Asgardian prince and a tortured human scientist.

  
The facts of the matter were made very clear to Thor; he was to wed Midgard’s strongest warrior in order to obtain peace between the Realm’s.

It was both an olive branch...and the arrow with which the Realm’s held one another at bay.

It was a statement.

“Know our strength intimately, and if there should come a time of war, know he and we will have no qualms striking like a snake in the grass.”

It was commendable, this deal the Midgardian’s arranged. Who knew they had the gumption to slither into the very belly of the beast? Thor could respect their tenacity.

He was unsure of how such a matrimony would come together, to say the least. Was he really to marry someone based purely on their aptitude in battle alone? He had expected, should he be forced to wed, he’d be settled with a gentle maid or a stately man of the courts. He’d hoped even a shred of feeling might come to pass, a love as strong as that between Frigga and Odin, if he was lucky.

But that didn’t seem likely, as politically and strategically driven as this wedding was to be.

But he was the eldest Prince, the heir to the Asgardian throne; his heart belonged only to his people, to the dutiful path laid at his feet since birth. He could bare a loveless marriage for the good of his people.

At best...he hoped no animosity would be sewn.

—

Thor’s bedchambers were in a flurry. Clothing and armor were lain out across his crimson sheets, and the court stylist was waving servants about, fetching this cloth or that pin. The light slanting through the large windows pooled near Thor’s boots, the beginning of the sun’s descent hinted at around the flowing edges of the curtains.

Thor was glad for the slight breeze coming through the cracked windows, the scent of feasts being prepared reminding him that not all of tonight’s festivities would be a trial for him. Eating often calmed him in times of stress; how could one be unhappy when his belly was full and his mug was filled with honeyed mead?

Perhaps he and his betrothed would share a love of cured meats and sweets.

The regalia Thor was to wear for the wedding was intricate and overly complicated, much finer than his usual armor. The stylist busied himself adjusting and priming the fabrics of his different tunics, tightening leather straps and hefting metal adornments to their correct position, each meant to highlight the princes grandeur. The colors were vibrant, deep reds and bright yellows and all manner of hue in between turning the ensemble into a work of art; as if the sun itself had been plucked from the sky to cast its rays across the son of the Allfather.

His hair was brushed to a fine sheen, smoothed with sweet perfumes, and his braids were woven intricately with small red stones.

Servants darted to and fro as they readied him, and Thor watched himself in the mirror, absent minded and perhaps—admitted to himself alone—a bit nervous. As his eyes flickered over a straying strap on his hip, he caught sight of a familiar reflection and smiled quickly.

“Ah, have you come to speak your condolences, brother, or with tidings of good luck?” Thor turned his head to see his brother looming behind him—for there was no other manner in which Loki stood other than looming-ly—and his smile turned into a grin.

“I’ve come to wish you luck, if you are to really go through with this.” Loki sauntered up beside his brother, and adjusted his black locks in the mirror with a sideways smirk. “Though if I were you, I would have to have a peek at my partner to be, so I could prepare to flee—or prepare the bedroom for a very nice night, if fate happens to smile in your favor.”

Thor huffed a laugh, before closing his mouth in a frown as a servant began quickly brushing and fluffing his beard. Once they finished, Thor rubbed at the newly combed fuzz and sighed.

“Fleeing is not an option, I fear. Father would have Heimdall fetch me, and surely I would hear no end to his ire.” Loki and he exchanged a glance, each knowing the extent to which their father could go when angered.

“I’m just hoping I do not get stabbed when we retire to our room. Or, at the bare minimum, only a minor stabbing.”

“Well, if you like I can train them in the art that is stabbing you, brother dear. It does take years of practice. Be sure they hit no vital organs.” The grin Loki sent Thor’s way was greeted by one hand covering his lecherous face and shoving him away.

“I think you should keep yourself far from my soon-to-be spouse, so that I might keep breathing a few years more, hm?” Thor shifted as the stylist tugged a bear's pelt over one of his broad shoulders—the pelt of a bear Thor himself has grappled with some years ago. He had a sizeable scar on one hip from where the creature had sunk its claws within his flesh; it seemed only fair he keep its pelt as payment. He wore it simply because it would do well to show this Midgardian warrior that they were not up against some weakling; Thor was a God. He could beat anything, be it beast or bear or man.

Loki righted himself and pushed a stray black hair behind his ear. “Ah, but will it not be exciting? Like old times, brother dear; me, goading the enemy with which you share your bed.” He waggled his eyebrows, and only elicited a groan from his brother in turn.

“Yes, how fun that was. You know, you’re a terrible brother.” Thor did have a tendency to choose bed partners perhaps a bit too willing to bury daggers in his gut. But he was older now; too mature to find that as thrilling as it once was.

A servant at the door spoke just as Loki seemed ready to volley a rebuttal. “My Lord, they are nearly ready for you.”

Loki moved quickly, placing a firm hand on the back of his brothers neck, and pulling him in for a hug. “I will go, allow you to finish in peace. Do not fear too much, brother—I think I heard that your spouse will not be too hideous.”

And with those encouraging words he grinned, turning abruptly on his heel and gliding out of Thor’s chambers. The spot Loki had vacated was immediately taken by yet another servant desperately attempting to finish Thor’s primping before the festivities were to begin.

Thor sighed, and once more allowed himself to succumb to their ministrations, staring forlornly into the mirror.

He was glad at least his brother did not share his burden. As much as they had joked about this these past few weeks, it was now a very real and present thing weighing heavily on Thor.

The person who may come to sleep within his chambers could very well slit his throat in his sleep if he lets his guard down. And that thought did not sit well with him in the slightest.

—

The throne room was filled to the brim; rows of gilded pews had been arranged to face the stage, garlands of gold hanging down from the high ceiling and glittering in the light of the setting sun. The stained glass through which the light came alighted the room in a kaleidoscope of colors, leaving those who had never before had the privilege to visit the throne room gawking.

All manner of people had come to attend the royal wedding. The common folk of Asgard were crowded towards the back, laughing and chattering excitedly, pointing at the far stiffer people of the court and whispering harsh barbs. The finery of the court was extravagant; councilman and advisors wore their best armor, their wives in flowing gowns and glittering jewelry. Each attempting to outshow the other before the royalty, no doubt.

A small group of Midgardian men and women—presumably dignitaries here to see that this marriage was secured properly—sat close to the front, in seats of great honor.

Thor took all of this in as he was ushered down the aisle and brought to stand at the dais, before his father and mother. Loki was once again looming off to one side, examining his seemingly freshly painted nails, and as Thor was turned to present himself fully to the crowd, his gaze caught on the group of Midgardian’s—mainly one man, who cut an imposing figure amidst the various politicians around him.

He possessed the build of a soldier, broad and commanding. He wore a uniform adorned with what Thor could only assume were medals from his time spent in combat. He was an older man, with a harsh, calculating gaze that cut towards Thor unflinchingly. One hand was raised towards his ear, and he was murmuring something low, something Thor himself could not quite catch.

His attention was pulled away from the human as the ceremony truly began.

The Allfather stood from his throne silently, descending the steps to stand at his wife’s side; a hush fell over the crowd as a gesture of his staff cued the soft beginnings of the musical accompaniment.

Thor awkwardly adjusted his armor, feeling too tightly squeezed. His boots felt heavy, as if he were stuck in place by their weight. His stomach churned.

All eyes turned to the door at the back of the throne room, and the soft sound of the harp felt unbearably loud in Thor’s ears.

What would walk through those doors? A man covered in battle scars? Gnarly, grizzled beard and hands strong enough to crush a skull? Some bear of a human, perhaps even taller than Thor himself?

Perhaps a woman, fierce and unforgiving as the sea? Some unstoppable tide who’s will and strength had taken life after life during some terrible Midgardian war?

Thor may have been sweating. Not because he feared for his wellbeing—surely he could best any human, no matter their prowess—but simply from an unease at the unknown. Whatever came through those doors could easily make his life a living Hel, more than even his brother managed. Whatever came through those doors could be a curse he’d be forced to endure for years. The only solace he could think of was that humans lifespans were far shorter than an Asgardian, so he wouldn’t be trapped with a terrible burden until death.

It didn’t reassure him much.

The only voice to pierce the hush of the room was the quiet murmur of the medal-adorned man, speaking into what must have been a communication device of some kind. Seemingly from his cue, the large door’s began to swing open, and every Asgardian held their breath with great anticipation as a small entourage came striding through the archway.

Thor’s gaze was quick—there were five humans in total. Four were large, wearing similar uniforms to that of the man who had cued their entrance. Weapons lay at their hips; guns, each with a hand positioned thereupon. At first Thor scanned them to see which was to be his companion, but upon further inspection found instead that his eyes had easily skipped over the figure at the center of this group.

It seemed that the whole of Asgardian had missed him at first as well, because seemingly in tandem with Thor’s own thoughts, the crowd began to speak—voices whispering and clammering over one another, astounded, confused, some even teetering towards anger. A particularly vocal citizen simply exclaimed, “How dare—“, before being cut off by a rush of ten or twenty more affronted voices.

Thor was not angry. He couldn’t muster more than a simple bafflement.

The small entourage continued down the aisle slowly, the four soldiers eyeing the crowd around them, subtly shifting their weapons more securely into their grips. Odin had stepped up behind Thor, one hand gripping his shoulder firmly—perhaps trying to communicate something—but the closer the group came, the less the room around Thor mattered.

The armor they had adorned Thor’s betrothed in was beautiful; deep, royal purples overlaying softer, subtler pinks. It resembled something of a night sky, accented with inset gems, glittering an almost unnatural green.

Upon any other figure, the armor may have seemed imposing.

The armed men stopped short of the dais, and moved without prompting to either side of the room, their eyes never once leaving their charge.

And then the man Thor was to wed was alone, standing one step below the Prince of Asgard, staring up at him from behind a pair of wire rimmed glasses, and he looked terrified.

—

It took considerably longer than it should have to quiet the people of Asgard. They were angry; this was an insult, surely. Sending one weak, insignificant human to wed their mightiest and most beloved warrior. How Midgard thought they could get away with this, they did not know. Surely some people were already readying themselves for the order from the Allfather to pick up arms and go to war.

Odin, however, did not seem interested in war. He called for silence, and steadied his gaze coolly on the man stood fidgeting before him.

He was at a loss. This was no warrior; Odin had seen men and women alike shaped by the harrows of war. Their eyes were hard, gazes fixed. Often, they exuded something akin to a scent; an aura as haunted as the battlefields they had left.

This man had...something. Not the spirit of a soldier, nor even a killer. But something iron and jagged lay at his edges, something lying dormant beneath his skin.

The leaders of Midgard had promised their most formidably warrior; they had guaranteed that even Odin’s son would find himself greatly at odds with such a fighter.

Odin knew they had ready all manner of precautions upon this man’s arrival. Those Midgardian weapons were not for the warriors protection, but for what Odin could only assume was his containment.

And yet as Thor took the man’s hands into his own, they were dwarfed in size; as Thor stood before him, he emphasized how diminutive the man really was.

There was something here that the Midgardians had not told him. He simply hoped that when it was discovered, it would not ruin this tenuous treaty they were creating.

Odin took a breath. There was no point in delaying this, despite his misgivings. So long as he continued without giving away his unease, the people of Asgard would quickly follow suit.

He hoped.

“People of Asgard, today we have gathered to join two powerful figures—our own crowned Prince of Asgard, and Midgards greatest Warrior—and unite these strong Realms—“

—

This was not what Bruce had expected.

To be quite honest, he wasn’t sure what he had expected.

There were so many people here.

People. Not aliens, like he’d been told. Not some odd, tentacle covered race cast off in some far away galaxy. They just looked like regular people, on a regular planet.

Not that he had been allowed to roam yet. Not that he had even been awake for the transportation to this strange, beautiful place; this ‘Asgard’. He had been heavily sedated, strapped to an upright gurney and brought along like a piece of unsavory baggage Ross and the others simply couldn’t wait to be rid of.

He was glad he was awake now, at least. That they weren’t simply going to have him “married” while unconscious, and then lock him up in a cell to live out the rest of his days. The cell was probably a guarantee, but at least he had some semblance of autonomy here. At least he could look out at the sea of people who were now to be saddled with him, a disaster on legs, the harbinger of pain and suffering himself. At least he could catalogue faces, possibly learn a few names, so he’d have something to fight the rage inside of him back and away. Have some reason to keep himself good while squirreled away in some dark hole.

For the sake of everyday people.

And then there was his...his spouse. The man to which he was to be “wed”. It made little sense, this archaic arranged marriage, as if they were in some Arthurian age once more. It must have been an Asgardian tradition; he couldn’t imagine this was what the leaders of Earth had originally planned on to garner a treaty with these people.

At least this symbolic gesture would usher in a new age of peace.

At least that’s what Ross and the others believed.

“An age of peace”, peace without Bruce, peace on Earth while he resides elsewhere, unable to ever harm humanity again, peace, where he might make this alien threat a moot point if something were to tip him over the edge and make him hurt people.

And all brought about by marrying one of the most handsome men Bruce had ever encountered.

He...actually seemed alien, compared to most of the people Bruce had seen so far. Not that he didn’t look human, but moreso that he looked too perfect to be a regular man.

His eyes were too bright, lashes too long. His hair was too gold, too flowing. His jaw looked chiseled; his throat a strong column. He was like a Greek statue, each delicate curve and sharp line crafted with the most detailed of care.

Bruce had heard that Asgardians believed themselves to be Gods. While looking up into the piercing gaze of a man such as this, he quickly began to understand why.

Everything moved too quickly and slow as molasses all at once as Bruce stood before the crowded room. The King was brisk, beginning a long litany of speeches about peace, duty, bonds between the Realms; whenever his eye came to rest on Bruce, it filled him with a meek sort of dread. The crowd was restless; Bruce could feel their distaste, their haughty gazes on him.

A bead of sweat dripped from Bruce’s brow; this armor was hot, heavy, and uncomfortable. It weighed him down, which only further frayed his nerves. He couldn’t flee, he couldn’t hide; he was bare and vulnerable on this ceremonial stage, half waiting to be dragged up to the dais and slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb.

He could imagine the joy that would bring General Ross, to see him flayed.

The only thing in this room that didn’t seem hostile was the golden maned man before him.

He was staring at Bruce. Not that Bruce was able to look backfires more than a moment. It was hard enough, having an entire room's worth of people, all gawking at him like he was some sideshow attraction, but to have someone this close, a stranger, gazing into his eyes? It made his stomach churn with nerves.

But still, even in those brief glances, Bruce saw a gentleness in his expression. A compassion in his attentive gaze. He very carefully squeezed Bruce’s clammy fingers, and for a moment Bruce was able to take a deep, steadying breath.

The spiralling terror of his thoughts began to slow, and he could once more tune into what the King was saying in his commanding voice.

“And now, as we join our Realms together, knitting a beautiful tapestry of progress and peace, we shall also knit the souls of these two you see stood before you—bind them in loyalty, duty, and above all else, love.”

Bruce forced himself to raise his head at these words, and felt the calm breath he’d taken rush out of him, as though he’d been struck. The king had raised his hands, gazing up towards the ceiling, and…and gold had begun to flow from his finger tips. Inexplicably, impossibly, shimmering gold light was manifesting between his palms, and as he brought them down towards Bruce’s hands, where they were clasped with the princes, all he could think as a powerful fear began to rise up in his chest was, What is my life?


End file.
